


Break

by blewoutthestars



Series: Impossible Things [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Slash, Protective Bruce, Tony Feels, Tony Has Issues, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:21:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6895288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blewoutthestars/pseuds/blewoutthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s Thursday and the last time he looked at the clock it had just gone three in the afternoon, but the rainclouds are making it dark and it feels later in the day than that. Tony’s been sitting in this armchair by the window for a good two hours, flipping the pages of a book but not really reading anything. Hell, he doesn’t even know what book it is, but turning the pages gives his hands something to do as he stares at the words and then stares out of the window and doesn’t see a damn thing in front of him.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Post Civil War, Tony gets an unexpected phone call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR CIVIL WAR SPOILERS. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

It’s raining.

It’s Thursday and the last time he looked at the clock it had just gone three in the afternoon, but the rainclouds are making it dark and it feels later in the day than that. Tony’s been sitting in this armchair by the window for a good two hours, flipping the pages of a book but not really reading anything. Hell, he doesn’t even know what book it is, but turning the pages gives his hands something to do as he stares at the words and then stares out of the window and doesn’t see a damn thing in front of him.

There’s plenty of activity still going on throughout Avenger’s base; there are plenty of cogs to keep turning and jobs to be done but none of them are Tony’s and the residential part of the complex is silent. Vision is around here someplace but he’s never been the most extroverted character at the best of times and since the events of last week Tony’s barely laid eyes on him. Steve’s letter had said he was glad Tony was around friends but Tony’s not entirely sure that’s the case. He’s not ready to do the sharing-and-caring thing yet, especially not with Vision. His voice sometimes still sends a sick rush down Tony’s spine and where he is right now, caught somewhere between a past he can’t stomach and a present he can’t face, that’s the last thing he needs. Rhodey is still here, staying in the hospital wing while he works on his legs, but when he’s not eating or at physio he mostly sleeps. Evidently that kind of trauma saps a guy’s energy reserves.

Tony’s own stillness the past few days is unnerving him. Stillness isn’t, has never been, Tony’s natural state, especially not in a time of crisis. His life has been perpetual motion and every upheaval has been met with the deep-rooted need to _do something._ The night Howard and Maria died – no, not died, the night Howard and Maria were _killed_ \- he had come back from the morgue alone after identifying his parents’ bodies and locked himself in his private garage. He’d stayed there for three days straight, not eating and barely sleeping, and when he finally emerged to deal with horrifically everyday details of funerals and wills he had built a motorbike from spare parts. It was beautiful, every part of it designed with intense care and precision. 

After the funeral he took a sledgehammer to it.

Now, though, he can’t find a damn thing to do. His fingertips still fizz with nervous energy but the rest of his body seems to have ground to a halt. There are probably plenty of things he could be doing; Christ, there’s probably a list as long as his arms of things that need his attention, but his brain can’t or won’t force his body to deal with any of it. Instead he sits here or wanders aimlessly around the place, trying to force unbidden and unwanted memories out of his head but finding very little to take their place at the forefront of his mind. A psychologist would have a field day.

A sudden noise interrupts the heavy silence. It takes Tony’s unusually slow mind a couple of moments to connect it with the buzzing in his pocket, and finally to realise that his phone is ringing. _His_ phone. Any business calls go to a different number; Friday would divert them to the complex phone line and not to his personal cell phone. 

The thing is, the list of people who have this number and aren’t currently on the run, AWOL or not speaking to him has narrowed to pretty much just Rhodey. And, if the time on the wall clock is right, Rhodey should be half an hour deep into his physio session.

He takes the phone out of his pocket. The number on the screen is unusual; he doesn’t recognise the area code.

‘Friday?’

‘Unidentified caller, sir. Give me a moment to trace it.’

Tony doesn’t stop staring at the device. It doesn’t stop ringing.

It takes barely ten seconds for Friday to update him. ‘Got it. It’s coming from a payphone in Hong Kong. Should I block the number sir?’

Tony considers. The damn thing is still buzzing in his hand. ‘No,’ he considers, ‘To hell with it.’ He presses the little green ‘answer’ button and lifts the phone to his ear. ‘Whoever you are, I hope you realise there are at least four armed response teams on their way to your location right now. So you’d better make this quick.’

The line is bad. It fizzes and crackles, but there’s no mistaking the voice suddenly filling his ear. ‘I really hope you’re bluffing, Tony.’

Instantly every inch of Tony’s skin is on fire and he chokes on his next breath. ‘Bruce?’ he manages, already half-convinced that he’s finally lost it and this is all a cruel hallucination.

‘Hey, Tony.’

What do you say when your missing-in-action best science buddy calls you out of the blue, a year since you last saw him, at the tail end of the worst week of your life? Tony’s at a loss, except for: ‘There aren’t really any response teams.’

Bruce chuckles, and _god_ Tony hasn’t realised until this moment just how much he missed that sound.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ the scientist is saying, ‘I don’t think that would have worked out well for anybody.’

‘Oh, I think it would be understandable,’ Tony hears himself replying. ‘If you start sneaking up on a guy with a big green startle reflex you only have yourself to blame.’ Early on in life he had developed the ability to keep his mouth running a step ahead even when his brain was struggling to keep up. When he was a kid and his quick brain and quicker mouth were all anybody really noticed it seemed like a useful defence reflex. In reality, though, more often than not it had left him in more trouble than he started out with. He can feel himself doing it now, brain floundering under the complete out-of-the-blue-ness of this situation and his mouth producing inane babble to make up for it. It takes an effort, but he forces himself to stop. After all, if anyone on this planet will give him a moment to pause and collect himself, it would be Bruce.

‘Bruce,’ he sighs, refocussing on the matter at hand. ‘You’re in Hong Kong?’ He meant to leave the question there but the follow-up jumps out of him before he can stop it. ‘Are you coming home?’

There’s a pause on the other end, and only the crackle of the line convinces Tony that Bruce hasn’t just straight-up hung up on him.

‘I am in Hong Kong,’ Bruce finally confirms, and he sounds so tired, so weary that it has Tony mentally calculating how quickly he could get there if he left _right now_ , but before he can have Friday conjure up a flight plan Bruce finishes his sentence with, ‘but not for long. I’m about to head to the airport and figure out my next step. I’m not coming h-… I’m not coming back to New York.’

A cold, sharp sliver of disappointment slices through Tony’s insides and he hears his own petulance as he asks, ‘Why are you calling then? Do you need money?’

It’s fair that Bruce sounds a little insulted. ‘Money is the last thing I’d call you for, Tony.’

Tony brings a hand to his face, massaging his forehead and pinching the bridge of his nose. _For fuck’s sake Tony, can you please not fuck up just one friendship?_ ‘I know, I’m sorry Bruce, I just… shit, it’s been a long week. So, what’s up? Do you need anything? Can I, I dunno, help?’

‘Actually,’ Bruce’s voice is soft, ‘I thought maybe I could help you.’

‘I’m good,’ he lies. ‘So unless you have a master plan to stop my interns stealing stationery because, man, is that eating through the office supplies budget, I think I’m probably okay.’

‘Tony.’ Bruce’s tone is somewhere between disappointed and sympathetic and it cuts to Tony’s heart. ‘I caught up with the news. I’m sorry it took so long, most newspapers I read are out of date by at least a couple of days, and… you know I couldn’t come, not when…’

‘Not when Ross was involved.’ Tony finishes his thought so he doesn’t have to, and as he says the name he feels a brand new nauseating splinter of guilt wedge itself into his stomach alongside all the rest. ‘I didn’t… I didn’t _want_ to team up with him, Bruce, but he was the person making it happen and I really thought it was the best thing to do after Sokovia and all the other places and I didn’t…’ His voice cracks and he’s horrified to realise that his eyes are blurry with tears.

‘Hey, hey, it’s okay,’ Bruce is saying, and Tony is simultaneously glad that Bruce isn’t physically present to witness his breakdown, and wishes with all his heart that he could just wrap Bruce in a hug and tell him everything in touches and sighs instead of words.

‘I just… I’m really sorry Bruce. Really.’

‘I mean it Tony, it’s okay. You thought: the lesser of two evils, right?’ Tony hums a noise of assent. ‘I’m struggling to understand everything though. I’m really trying, but there’s so much bias in all the reporting it’s impossible to tell what really happened. I know you and Steve never really saw eye to eye and I get why he didn’t want to sign the accords – and why you did,’ he adds hurriedly, ‘But there’s something missing in my picture. Fill me in?’

Tony does. It’s the first time he’s talked to anyone, really, about the events of the past week – how can he put his baggage on Rhodey, after everything he’s been through? – and it comes out stilted and backwards, but he tells Bruce everything. Right from the beginning at his MIT talk, the lady whose son got killed, the accords, Zemo, Bucky… Howard and Maria. Bruce listens in silence.

‘And now I’m here,’ Tony finishes, hoarse and pink in the face from trying not to cry. ‘And pretty much everyone’s gone. The team. Pepper. You. I got Rhodey hurt.’ He sighs and a traitor of a tear escapes to run unsanctioned down his cheek. ‘I fucked up Bruce. I fucked up real bad. Again.’

‘You were trying to make things better.’ 

Tony snorts, ‘Yeah, that always seems to work out _so_ well. Shit, Bruce, maybe I should become a supervillain instead; I’d probably end up accidentally solving world hunger. Sure as hell couldn’t do any worse than I have trying to help.’

‘You don’t believe that.’ Bruce’s voice is soft, and for a moment the line is clear enough that if Tony closed his eyes he could maybe pretend that Bruce is there in the room and not eight thousand excruciating miles away. ‘You’re a good man Tony. Yes, sometimes your focus can be too narrow and you can be a bit… _forceful_ but only because you care so much. And for what it’s worth, I might not have signed the accords but I don’t think standing up for what you think is best to help people counts as a fuck-up.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, but if I hadn’t pushed for it then the others wouldn’t be fugitives and Rhodey would still have full use of his legs.’

There’s a long pause, and then Bruce sighs. ‘Tony,’ he murmurs, ‘You gotta stop blaming yourself for other people’s decisions. I know you have one hell of a guilt complex going on but some shit just _happens_. You can’t take responsibility for Steve’s actions, or Nat’s, or anyone else’s.’

Tony realises that he’s sunk so far down in his chair that his ass is hanging off the edge and his chin is pressed into his chest. He doesn’t make any attempt to move. He can’t even begin to understand where Bruce gets this seemingly unshakeable faith in his character but one thing’s for sure: ‘There’s no point arguing with you, is there?’

The long-distance crackle can’t disguise Bruce’s smugness. ‘None at all.’

That confident declaration is the last straw. Something about the confirmation of Bruce’s ridiculous, idiotic belief in him breaks something deep inside Tony and all of a sudden he’s crying, all ungraceful tears and snot and hiccupping sobs. His face is hot and his chest tightens painfully so that he twists to sit up but loses his balance, slipping off the chair and landing painfully on the floor with a bump. The childish stupidity of it all only makes him cry harder. 

On the other end of the line Bruce shushes sympathetically, offering quiet little words of comfort until Tony’s ungainly sobs have subsided into snuffles. He’s half curled up on the floor against the foot of the chair and as his breathing slowly returns to normal he drags the hand that isn’t holding the phone across his eyes to wipe away the moisture.

‘Sorry,’ he croaks once his throat’s stopped burning enough to get words out. ‘I’m a mess.’

‘It’s understandable.’ Bruce pauses. ‘I… I wish I was there to help more, Tony.’

‘Then come home.’ He can’t be bothered with beating around the bush anymore. For fuck’s sake, he just wants Bruce _home._

The regret in Bruce’s voice when he replies is palpable. ‘I can’t, Tony. Not yet. I’m… working through some things.’ 

As much as he wants to, Tony can’t argue with that. ‘Some day, though?’ It’s horribly needy but in the last couple of weeks almost everyone he cares about has up and left and frankly he thinks he’s earned the right to be a bit needy.

Maybe Bruce thinks so too because he doesn’t call him on it. ‘Some day,’ he promises. ‘Sooner rather than later, I hope.’ 

If he’s being needy and honest then Tony thinks he may as well go the whole hog. ‘I miss you.’

In the pause before Bruce answers he can feel every one of those eight thousand miles; but then, soft and sad, Bruce replies, ‘I miss you too.’ Tony hasn’t even begun to think of what to say next when fate decides it for him. ‘Shit,’ Bruce curses, ‘Tony, my money’s running out. I have to go, I’m sorry.’

Tony draws a shaky breath, ‘No, it’s okay. Thanks for calling. It means… it means a lot. Thank you, Bruce.’

‘I’ll call again when I can, I promise. And Tony? Take care of yourself. Please.’

A tiny smile tugs at Tony’s lips in spite of himself. ‘You too.’

The line goes dead. For a moment Tony stares stupidly at the phone, then he slips it back into his pocket and pulls himself to his feet.

‘Friday?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Time to get to work.’

**Author's Note:**

> My Tony feels after seeing Civil War a couple of weeks ago have been too much, they needed to be worked out in fic form ;)
> 
> Want to flail about Tony and Bruce with me? You can find me on tumblr [here](http://squishylittlebear.tumblr.com/).


End file.
